


Happiness.  Ever After?

by valderys



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Community: hobbit_smut, M/M, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-24
Updated: 2010-05-24
Packaged: 2017-10-09 16:52:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valderys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pippin is married. Freddy has Merry. So why is he still running away?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happiness.  Ever After?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 'Who's doing Whom?' Challenge in 2005. Sequel to [Holly's Fortune](http://archiveofourown.org/works/89607).

"Merry, I'll just be…"

I stop, my words drying in my throat, as I perceive that the hobbit inhabiting Merry's study is not who I thought it was. The curtains are half drawn, and it's a gloomy day besides, so perhaps it's not so surprising that I could make such a mistake. There is a reddish glow from the banked fire, but the light is still very dim. He really should have lit the lamp if he doesn't want others to make such errors, I think, and I nearly open my mouth to tell him so, before I realise that would be presumptuous in the extreme. He's been visiting these halls as long as I have, if not longer, even if he's not exactly been a frequent visitor of late. He knows to light the lamp, if that's what he wants to do.

So I stand instead, a little numb, a little dumbstruck, fidgeting, just inside the doorway. I don't know why I feel so awkward, except that I do know, and I wonder if he feels the same way. But that is a silly thing to think, with him newly married and heading for happily-ever-after. There's no reason for any of this, really. It's only my own morbid thoughts spiralling round and round, and churning down into dark uncertain territory that I'm not sure even Merry has found yet, and been able to laugh into sweetness.

Abruptly, I can't stand the strained silence a moment longer and I gasp out a sort of strangled "I'm sorry…" and turn to go. The door handle is a solid weight in my hand, and I've started to pull it to, the door swinging on silent hinges, before I hear the quiet voice that asks me to stay.

It's a dilemma, isn't it? I don't want to be here. If I'd known he was visiting, I would have made myself scarce. Not running away, not exactly. Although, if I'm honest with myself – and Merry likes that in me, he tries to encourage me to think things through, to talk things out, not to shut myself down so hard that I can't feel anything, which is what I might do, if it was left to me – no, if I'm honest with myself, it's not exactly running away. It's more that I don't want to see Merry when he's with him, because I don't enjoy feeling helpless, or useless either. I spent far too long feeling like that, and I'm trying not to do that any more. Which is why I don't think of it as running away – Merry will know where to find me, if he needs me. I don't ride hell-for-leather from the Hall or anything dramatic like that, I just… slip into the cracks for a bit, I suppose. Find an old Auntie to help, or have a gossip with the stablehands, or go inspect the grounds for a time.

Which is why, although it's not running away, I have a sudden desperate desire to go for a stroll in the rose garden.

I don't, of course. I turn to face him. After all, we're friends too, aren't we? Why shouldn't we have a chat like old friends should? And I promised Merry…

_"For goodness sake, Freddy, you'd think we were going to a funeral, not for a lovely bit of tea and very probably the best cream buns in the Shire…"_

Merry puts his head on one side and gives me that look. The one guaranteed to make any wrongdoer squirm. I laugh a little and am glad that I'm not a Ruffian, or an orc, or any other of the myriad nasty creatures my Merry has fought in his adventures. Very scary, he can be, when his eyes turn dark as storm clouds. His chin shifts then, as he smiles at me instead, and I get a horrible urge to lick it, all crooked and beloved, and still as new as this all is.

"Are you sure about this?" I ask, "It's just that… Well. Your mother…"

"And how often have you come to tea with my mother? Can you even remember? No, I didn't think so. So why are you in such a bother about it now?"

He reaches out and straitens my cravat, and tucks it a little tighter into my shirt. His fingers are warm against my neck and I shiver, before shyly ducking my head to let his hand brush against my cheek as he withdraws it.

"It's different now. And I'm not what she might have wanted for…" I mumble, inspecting my immaculately brushed feet.

He chuckles then himself, and I feel his hands come to rest on my shoulders, as he carefully draws me to him, until my forehead rests against the fine embroidery of his waistcoat. I slip my hands around his waist and listen to his heartbeat.

"I want you to promise me something, Freddy. I want you to promise me that you will try to stop being so uncomfortable about our relationship. I'm happy to have you come to tea with Mama, or indeed with anyone else who is important in my life. You too are an important part of that life now, and I don't care who knows it. After all, at this rate, I might almost think that you're ashamed to be seen with me!"

I raise my head in quick protest, to find him grinning at me, and I smile back then, knowing that he's teasing. But his eyes, lighter now, silver and shadow, are serious none the less. I know that he wants me to believe him, and I do, I do. Only…

"I promise," I say, having nothing else to offer, and he kisses me, hard, and I taste resolve, and determined passion, in both our mouths…

Merry's study is wood-panelled, in rich old oak, and I struggle a little with the heavy door, as I pull it closed behind me. The frame of the door has warped a little and doesn't want to sit in the gentle contours that were carved for it long years ago, but, in turn, I don't want half the smial to be able to listen in on this conversation of old friends. And then I wonder if I am still being cowardly, for doesn't that prove that I am still worried about what people think? When I promised Merry that I would not be any more?

But I answer the endless little voice in my head with the thought that this is not just another person. No, this is Peregrin Took. Pippin. Merry's best friend. The little pest who followed us throughout our tweenhoods, and then grew up and followed Merry a good deal further than that. Merry's lover, once upon a time. Now married, and respectable. The good heir.

I gently run my fingers along the satin-smooth wood and think about that ancient Brandybuck craftsmanship not quite fitting its slot any more. Then take a breath, and turn with a smile on my face.

"Pippin. It's good to see you. I hadn't realised you were here, or I wouldn't have intruded."

"That's all right, Freddy," he offers cheerfully, "I'm only waiting for Merry, but since he doesn't know I'm here yet, I expect it could be a while. I asked the servants not to disturb him."

I try and study his expression where he is sitting by the fire in one of the fine leather armchairs, but the light is too dim for me to catch more than an outline, and a shadow of his face. I walk to the desk, so large and solid, and I hold it for steadiness, before reaching for the lamp, and a spill to light it with.

"So how is Diamond? And your family?"

The words feel odd, but they trip from my unready tongue as lightly as any social chatter might have in the past. Perhaps the old me, good old Fatty from before the Troubles, is helping me through this strangely awkward moment, but that makes me feel even more dislocated and odd. That me, that Freddy, would never have allowed himself to be in this situation, I think to myself.

"They're well. Of course. It's kind of you to ask," Pippin says.

His voice has a slight catch in it, I believe. My hand shakes a tiny amount and the glass cover of the lamp knocks against its metal frame and rings a clear chime into the still room. I firmly take it in both palms, and carefully move it to the mantelpiece, before leaning down to light my spill from the glowing coals.

"And how are you?" he asks in return.

The lamp flares into brilliance, and my eyes are dazzled just for a moment. I blink them clear, and find I am staring into Pippin's face, heart-shaped, up-turned, and looking as young as when he first went away, before the Troubles, before everything that mattered in the world changed…

My glib words desert me. I feel cut to the heart again, a stranger in my own body, guilt welling up at the sight, as I am faced so suddenly with the longing in Pippin's eyes. They are shadowed, I think, with a hint of trouble, with a glimmer of pain. I know it is arrogant of me, but my first thought is that I have caused this, somehow, by my good fortune, by my taking of his place at Merry's side. Is Pippin angry with me? Is that it? Is he upset and wanting to argue?

A sudden sharp burning agony interrupts my thoughts, as these absurd things will, for the spill has continued to burn down and begins to singe my fingers. I drop it and curse, and Pippin leans a little and stamps on the smouldering remains, and the moment is lost. But it breaks the frozen awkwardness too, and we both laugh a little, and I can feel myself relax.

I throw myself into the other leather chair, across the fireplace from Pippin's, and reflect on the pool of lamplight that casts the rug's many shades of red into a warm glow. I should remember other times here shouldn't I? More recent times, and dare I say it, happier times? I should. I know I should. Merry would want me to, wouldn't he?

_"Freddy?"_

"Mmm," I say, engrossed in the latest letter from my sister. I know that Budgeford is only a few miles away, but 'Stella really does like writing letters. One of the most pleasant parts of my recovery, after I was freed from the Lockholes, was 'Stella determinedly sitting on my bed and reading out all the letters she had written to me when I was… away. I turn the page. What did the gardener find in the woodshed last week? Well - that's rare!

"Freddy?"

"Eat your toast, Freddy."

I feel a tickle on the back of my neck that makes me look up from where I am comfortably ensconced on the rug. Merry is leaning down, his curls bright in the firelight, and he nuzzles the back of my neck as I stretch in surprised gratification. The scent of butter and toasted bread wafts into my nose, now that I'm thinking about it, and I realise a toasting fork is dangling almost dangerously from his fingers.

He murmurs playfully again, "Please eat your toast, Freddy, since I've gone to so much trouble to make it for you…"

And it tickles, his hot breath on my neck, and I twitch, as delicious goosebumps run themselves up and down my back. Honestly, he's always trying to feed me up, and I think it's a lovely gesture, so much so that I can never tell him how seldom it is that I feel hungry these days. Then I twist a little, so I can kiss him slowly for thank you, licking my way across his mouth, until he breathes faster and clutches my jacket tight. And he tastes of warmth, and butter, and sweet blackberry jam…

I look up from the rug, and across at Pippin again. His curls are chestnut, not golden, and the eyes are Tookish green, not slate blue and grey, changeable and stormy.

"I can't complain, thank you, Pippin. Burnt fingers aside." I answer his question from earlier, and his brow, which was frowning a little, smoothes and his smile glimmers again.

"And Merry? He's well too?" Pippin asks, with a slight hesitation, the meaningless social inanity taking on a depth and seriousness well beyond its words.

And as suddenly as that I find I'm at a loss again. Certainly, yes, Merry's well. Healthy in himself. He is still the Master's heir, and he has his work, on the estates and with the tenants. He has his herb lore and his maps, and other pastimes. I don't know what else to say. It all keeps him much occupied, I know.

But I'm almost sure that's not what Pippin means. He's asking about the shadows I always see before Merry smiles and hides them. He's asking about the names Merry murmurs in the middle of the night. He's asking about the nightmares that sometimes plague his sleep... And I don't know what to say to that because he isn't well, not really, no more than any of us are, but I'm not sure that they're my secrets to tell. I don't feel I can talk about them any more than I would expect Merry to explain when he has to unwrap me from sheets that I'm crying out are choking me, or that I need a candle burning by my bedside because I can't sleep in the dark…

"Of course he's well," I offer hesitantly, "Although I think he's glad to be working again, after... after such jollity as we all had at Yule."

And this time Pippin is silent, and I take the chance to study him as he stares into the fire. He seems a different creature to the hobbit I saw married off so few weeks ago. Then, he was all laughter and gaiety, joking with everyone, and love shone from him as brightly as that lamp I have just lit. And why should he not? He and Diamond made the loveliest couple, as any hobbit who attended could avow. Why should he have had time to see what I saw? What could he have done about such feelings, if he had seen them, on public show as he was on his big day? And for myself? His loss has been my gain, and I can't find it in myself to regret that. It was perhaps a fragile thing that Pippin's wedding brought me that day, but I can't deny that it has been welcome. I have spent more time here at Brandy Hall lately than I ever have at Budgeford, and I must admit, I am glad of it.

Then I bite my lip as Pippin turns serious eyes back on me, flashing almost evergreen in the lamplight. The little rascally Pippin that I had known could never have looked like this. I almost shiver as I see the changes in him as clearly now as I have ever seen them in Merry.

"But he's happy, isn't he? Freddy? He's happy."

And I wonder what Pippin's really asking. Do I make him happy? Do I? I hold my breath as I consider this…

_The slow maddening slide of flesh is counter-pointed by a sudden thrust to bring us flush again, and Merry grunts deep in his throat, as he does every time I push into him suddenly like this. I don't know how long I can keep the rhythm up, for I'm teasing myself as much as I am teasing him, and my hands on his hips are sweat-slick, and nearly as whitened around the knuckle as Merry's death-grip on the headboard. I slide back once more, and he groans, low and urgent, and tries to thrust back onto me, desperate for friction, but my grip on his hips refuses to let him._

"Freddy… Please… Now… For the love of…" he whispers desperately, forcing broken words past the fire raging in both our bodies. I consider this plea, with the fever in my blood only just outweighing the deliciousness of knowing he will beg far harder if I wait… But I am burning as hot as he is, and I cannot wait. Not today, not now.

So I let my control slip and slam into him as hard as I have been aching to do, and then again, faster and harder. Merry shudders and then, as I reach around to grasp his own need, he gasps and throws his head back. I pump my fist, even as I thrust again and again into blazing heat and tightness and, oh… There is a wail, and I don't know whose throat is making it, but I follow the sound, spiralling up and up into the air, touching peaks I would swear far outstretch the Misty Mountains, before I slump, back to earth at last, satiated, and draped inelegantly all over Merry's sweaty back.

Eventually my heart slows its frantic beating and later, after endless moments, Merry shifts, and softened flesh slips out. I hiss at the scrape of fabric on over-sensitive organs, but I cannot manage anything more than a protesting moan when Merry jabs me with his elbow, as he turns around just enough to tuck me into his side. We begin to sink into contented sated lassitude and, lazily, I start to trace idle patterns on his skin. He almost laughs, as I almost tickle him, so I kiss his poor tormented belly instead, and stop my teasing, and we lie comfortably in our nest of quilts, warm and safe, as the winter rain outside rattles against the windowpanes…

Happy? Is he happy? I hope so. I think so. I look at Pippin, so solemn and serious, and think, he loves you, he loves you. But then you left him all alone in Crickhollow when you married Diamond. You did the responsible thing, and your family is happy. But you left him. Nothing I can say will change that. Nothing I do will change the fact that all I am doing is picking up the pieces.

Pippin looks so young, with his nose tip-tilted, and his hair glowing honey-brown in the lamplight. And I wonder, all of a sudden, if he regrets anything. I wonder what he's really asking of me. And I think… We are all of us responsible, in our own ways. He wants forgiveness, he wants to know if he did the right thing, and what can I offer…

"Of course he's happy." I say, firmly, and smile at him. "We're all of us happy – after all, what do the stories say? 'And they lived happily ever after'? That's us, Pip. After the excitement of our stories. We're all living happily ever after."

And Pippin crinkles his nose up in a shy grin, filled with genuine warmth, and I smile back, and think, this isn't so awkward, not any more. There are more than one set of pieces to pick up, after all, and if I can't offer forgiveness, I can at least try to offer hope. And then we sit companionably as the afternoon darkens to evening, and I think about taking tea with the family, and about my walks in the rose garden. I think about all the reasons there are to keep running away.

But then I think about Pippin, and responsibility, and the picking up of pieces. And I know that I will stay when Pippin visits next, I won't slip away into the cracks any more, and we'll all of us laugh and joke together, until we make it so, until there is no more room in any of our hearts for anything else.

Happiness. Ever after.


End file.
